


it was only a kiss

by pyrrhic_victory



Series: Good Omens Oneshots [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Romance, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 05:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victory/pseuds/pyrrhic_victory
Summary: Aziraphale has never been kissed before, and, assuming Crowley has a lot of experience, asks him to demonstrate. Misunderstandings are had.'He should say no. He should snort and say ‘I’m not kissing you, angel, they have nightclubs for that sort of thing’, and Aziraphale should tut and then drop the matter entirely. He should hold himself back, because if he kisses him, he’s never going to be able to go back to what they are now, regardless of how innocent Aziraphale’s intentions are.'





	it was only a kiss

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, in an oddly uncertain voice. Crowley glances over from his position on the sofa in the backroom to see him frowning quite severely at his glass of gin. “Do you think we might...that is to say...humans seem to enjoy kissing.” 

Crowley feels heat rush to his face and hurriedly throws back his drink. “They do, yeah.” 

“I’ve never done it, you see,” Aziraphale says. He’s paused with the bottle in one hand and his glass in the other. They've been drinking for a few hours, the same as any other evening, and Crowley has absolutely no idea how he's arrived at this thought. Aziraphale throws Crowley an anxious look. “Kissed anyone, that is. And you must have a lot of experience.” It’s not quite a statement, but not quite a question, either, like he’s waiting for Crowley to disagree. And he should, because he’s never kissed anyone either. (How could he, with the eyes of a snake? How could he, when he’s been in love with one exceedingly unattainable person for millennia?) But he can’t. Everything is suddenly too hot and the shop is pressing in around him, because there’s no way this is how Aziraphale finally does it. There’s no way this is how it happens. He looks over to find Aziraphale watching him very nervously.

“Sorry, were you saying something, angel?” 

“Oh, never mind. It was a silly thought.” Aziraphale pours his drink glumly, and half of it ends up on the carpet. If he notices, he says nothing of it. 

“No, go on,” Crowley quickly says, sitting up straight. Well, as straight as Crowley ever gets. He doesn’t want to look too eager, after all. Aziraphale frowns a bit, and sips his drink. “You were saying?”

Aziraphale sits up straight - incidentally, a lot straighter than Crowley and a bit less straight than usual, due to the gin - and clears his throat. “I was saying that I’ve often wondered what it’s like, and- and I could find a human to try it with, I suppose, but I thought I’d ask whether...” he holds his drink in his lap, his finger circling around the rim of the glass, and looks hopefully at Crowley. 

“Whether...?” He repeats, because he can’t believe this is happening, and he wants to hear it. 

“Well, whether you wouldn’t mind...” he makes a flourishing gesture in the air. “Demonstrating.” 

“With you?” Crowley blankly says. 

“Well, yes. I’ve seen plenty of people kiss each _ other _, my dear.” 

He should say no. He should snort and say ‘I’m not kissing you, angel, they have nightclubs for that sort of thing’, and Aziraphale should tut and then drop the matter entirely. He should hold himself back, because if he kisses him, he’s never going to be able to go back to what they are now, regardless of how innocent Aziraphale’s intentions are.

But Aziraphale’s asking him for this, and he’s right there, and they’re both drunk, so maybe they’ll both forget it in the morning. Or pretend to, which might be much the same. 

“Alright,” he leisurely says, and puts his glass down on the table. 

Aziraphale blinks at him in surprise. “Really?”

Crowley shrugs. “Yeah. Far be it from me to deprive you of a human pleasure.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale seems a bit stunned. He doesn’t move as Crowley gets up, just tilts his head back to watch him stand.

“You ready?” Aziraphale blinks rapidly and seems to remember what he’s doing. He puts down his glass and straightens his bow tie, and pats his thighs. 

“I believe so.” 

Crowley freezes there for a moment, looking down at his angel, as his angel looks up at him. (The angel, he corrects himself.) It’s probably sacrilege, what he’s about to do, which by all accounts ought to be a good thing. Aziraphale stares up at him, looking for all the world like he’s innocent, naive. But even though Crowley knows he isn’t innocent or naive - he’s been around six thousand years for Satan’s sake - he can’t help but feel dirty for doing this. Like he’s dirtying Aziraphale by even thinking of him the way he’s been thinking of him for so long now. 

“Right,” he says, and slowly bends over so their faces are inches apart. This isn’t how he imagined it, either. In his mind, it’s always been Aziraphale descending from above, backed by light shining through clouds, Aziraphale lowering himself to Crowley’s level. Or perhaps, in the rare moments he allows himself to fantasise that he’s a great deal braver than he really is, Crowley envisions grabbing him by the lapels of his favourite coat and dragging him down. 

But here he is, and Aziraphale is staring up at him, and all he has to do is lower his head a few more inches. His sunglasses shift and he adjusts them, pressing them firmly into place. He needs them for this. It’s one thing to hide his feelings behind sunglasses and quite another to hide his feelings behind a kiss. He puts his hand on the arm of the chair to balance himself, because he’s definitely going to need that, too, and with the trembling fear that this is going to be snatched away from him at any moment, he leans forward and presses his lips against Aziraphale’s. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. There must be a technique to it, but he’s only ever watched films. He just lets it happen, lets Aziraphale kiss him back and hopes it isn’t obvious that he’s never done this before. How long is it supposed to last? How long can he last without giving away that he’s about to implode? He can’t see his face now, he can’t really see anything except flashes of carpet and soft skin. 

Aziraphale goes a bit still. Slowly, painfully, Crowley leans back, like a man lifting his foot off a triggered land mine. The angel is staring at him, a new kind of glassy-eyed look on his face now. 

Neither of them speak. He can’t tell whether Aziraphale knows, yet. He’s just staring at him. He stands up, and Crowley takes a step back. He’s waiting for him to say ‘well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about’ and bustle off to find some more gin, or ‘well, that was rather lovely’ and never mention it again. He’s waiting for the strike that kills him. But Aziraphale doesn’t speak. He just stands there, looking at him with a sudden look of pain on his face, and leans forward again. Crowley lets him, because what the Heaven else is he going to do? 

It’s more insistent, this time. A hand finds his shoulder and shifts along to the base of his throat, to keep him steady while Aziraphale presses in and kisses him more firmly. Warm fingers ghost across his skin. His sunglasses nudge the tip of Aziraphale’s nose, but he can’t take them off. He can’t risk letting him see - see what he is, what he feels, any of it. He can’t risk breaking the spell. He can taste gin this time, and he can tell Aziraphale’s lips are a bit dry, but soft, and when he breaks away it’s like being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. 

One kiss is an experiment, a test. He might have lived with that. But two? By all counts unnecessary. The second one had to mean...something. He doesn’t know what, and he’s terrified to speculate. And if Aziraphale is planning on coughing and turning away and pretending this never happened, he’s not sure he’ll survive it. The angel’s gaze lingers on his lips for a moment, and then track slowly up to his eyes, protected still by his sunglasses. And then his warm hand drops away from his shoulder, and Crowley feels the change like cold lead in his gut. He falls back onto the sofa and lounges there like he hasn’t just been shot dead. 

“So?” He finds himself saying. Aziraphale doesn’t sit, but steps back a bit. Crowley can’t do anything but stare. 

“That was-“ Aziraphale smiles, in a trembling, fragile sort of way like he’s trying not to cry, and knits his hands together. “Well, ah- that answered my questions, I think.” Then why does he look so heartbroken?

“Great.” 

“Thank you for indulging me,” Aziraphale says, still somewhat frozen. 

“Any time,” Crowley says, trying for a casual shrug and failing miserably. Ordinarily, he might make a joke about seducing an angel, or some such thing. But because he loves him (and if Aziraphale was anyone else he would have noticed by now) he doesn’t say anything else. Aziraphale sits back down, proper as ever, and picks up his glass again. That’s that, then. Crowley is definitely not drunk enough to endure this utter misery. 

“I’ll be off, then,” he grunts, standing back up and turning to the door. 

“Oh?” He looks back and Aziraphale is staring at him, eyes open wide and possibly, if Crowley’s own eyes aren’t being fooled by the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, a little teary. 

“It’s late,” Crowley says, knowing full well he’s stayed at the bookshop far later than this before, and napped on the sofa. 

“Right.” Aziraphale knows this too. He sniffs and looks into his drink. “Jolly good. Goodnight, Crowley.” 

“Night, angel.” 

He opens the bookshop door and lets the cold night air brush against him. 

“And Crowley?” Aziraphale has stood up again, twisting the glass in his hands. “Drive safely, won’t you?” 

Crowley swallows and nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. And then he’s closing the door behind him, and he’s standing in the street in the middle of Soho, with the black sky above him and people bustling around him. 

The Bentley zips him home obediently. (No, not home. To his flat. There’s a difference.) Inside, it feels like his ears are ringing, like the lights are too bright and warm and the walls are pressing down on him. It could be because he’s still a bit drunk. It could also be because he kissed Aziraphale, and then Aziraphale kissed him, and he doesn’t know what it means. If it meant anything to Aziraphale, why didn’t he say so? Isn’t he fond of those romantic books and sonnets full of impassioned speeches on love? Isn’t he infinitely better qualified to explain what the Heaven just happened?

Sometimes, he really hates Aziraphale, with his stupid old bookshop and ridiculous glasses and the way he makes everything so bloody difficult. It’s not hate, not exactly. But whatever he feels about him, he feels a lot of it, and it hurts. Angels can be crueller than demons, and this is the finest proof he’s ever seen of it. Doesn’t he know? Can’t he feel the awful, treacherous love Crowley is trying to contain, the love that drips out the sides and plops out in lunches and favours and rescue missions? 

His thoughts jumble together in a mess of love and hate and agony, and he collapses into bed with a miserable groan. He should be happy to have what he has. He’s had two kisses more than he ever thought he’d get. But it’s not right, because he doesn’t know what they meant. Surely this wasn’t just an experiment for Aziraphale, a fun human pleasure he hasn’t indulged in yet, like a nap or a new kind of ice cream? He’s not so naive. He’s not so wilfully blind to Crowley’s feelings that he doesn’t know what he’s just done. Unless he doesn’t think Crowley is capable of those feelings, of course. He’s just a lowly, wretched demon, after all. 

He’s too worked up to sleep, and too sober to bury his feelings. More alcohol it is. He drags himself up and trudges into his office to find a bottle of wine. The TV flicks on. There’s an old Bond movie on a Channel 4, with a shootout on a submarine. He slumps in the throne and chugs the wine in a manner unbefitting of the vintage, but he qualifies it as an act of evil and is therefore quite pleased with himself for it. Bond raises his exploding watch and cuts to an ad break, but the TV, which has experienced the worst of Crowley’s moods and knows what’s good for it, immediately changes its mind and returns to the film. He’s been waiting to turn around in his throne and say ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr Bond’ for years. Shame he didn’t think of that when Hastur and Ligur came knocking, really. Too busy trying not to get himself killed. 

He gets through an alarming amount of wine at an alarming pace. There’s none left at his desk and he’s really not in the mood to miracle up more, so he traipses around the flat looking for more. His plants rustle in fear as he stalks down the corridor. They’d better not notice that he’s sloshed, or they might get ideas about relaxing. 

There’s an odd tapping sound coming from outside. He squints at the label of the whiskey he’s found and ignores it. It doesn’t taste good, but it isn’t supposed to. It performs a function. He sighs and drags himself back to the office to watch Bond make a quip about his villain’s business ‘going under’ as the submarine sinks, and snorts, and there comes the tapping again. Only it’s not tapping, it’s firmer. It’s knocking. His head spins when he gets up, and it feels like someone’s rapping their knuckles against his skull.

“Crowley? It’s Aziraphale.” He goes still. Of course it’s Aziraphale, the building doesn’t allow anyone else up to the penthouse. The stairs don’t exist for anyone less than six thousand years old, and the lift politely refuses to take you any higher than the fifth floor if you weren’t around for Eden. He can’t exactly pretend he’s out, with the Bentley parked outside and Bond’s machine guns blaring on the television inside. He sighs and opens the door. 

Aziraphale smiles in relief, though he looks tense and anxious. “Crowley.” 

“Angel?” 

“I wanted to apologise for before.” He sounds very sober. That isn’t good. Crowley sways a bit and leans on the door jamb to put on the air of sobriety. “You were very kind to indulge me, but it inappropriate of me to ask. I’ve obviously made you uncomfortable, and I apologise.” 

Crowley stares at him, trying to keep his eyes focused on Aziraphale’s earnest, pained face. He’s apologising for kissing him. He’s actually, honest-to-Someone, apologising. Like he forced himself on Crowley. Does he really not get it? He’s starting to wish he hadn’t left his sunglasses on his bedside table.

Aziraphale shifts, unsettled by the lack of response. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late. Perhaps tomorrow, we could- or next week. We could do lunch?” 

“Yeah. Lunch,” Crowley hoarsely repeats. 

Aziraphale nods. There’s silence. 

“Look, I made a silly mistake, I know that now. Can we just forget it happened?” 

“Forget it,” Crowley repeats. How the Heaven is he meant to forget that?

“Yes. Thank you. Well, um, goodnight, Crowley. I’ll leave you to it.” He turns away. He’ll never talk about this again if Crowley doesn’t ask now. 

“You didn’t like it, then?” 

Aziraphale stops dead. He turns, still rigid, and gives the briefest flash of a pained smile. “It was wrong of me to use you like that.” That isn’t an answer, and they both know it.

“You didn’t exactly hold me at gunpoint.” The angel squints at him, not understanding. “Look, do you want to come in?” 

Aziraphale steps closer, uncertain. “Are you sure? It’s late.”

Against his better judgement, which has been laid off for the evening by the unconscionable amount of alcohol in his system, Crowley says, “I’ve always got time for you, angel.” 

The stunned look on Aziraphale’s face hurts even more than everything about Aziraphale already hurts. He shrugs off the pain as best he can and trudges back into his flat. He slumps back into his throne and turns down the volume on the TV a bit. When he looks back with bleary eyes, Aziraphale is behind him, standing awkwardly by the desk, wringing his hands. 

This has already turned into a mess, and he’s too drunk to keep track of who thinks what and what he’s supposed to be. They’ve spent so many years at cross-purposes, not understanding what the other is thinking. Too many years. He’s sick of it. But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Aziraphale is a stubborn bastard, and he’ll never be the first to give way. So, he takes a deep breath, and switches the TV off completely. Small truths first. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone, either,” he confesses. “Before you.”

Aziraphale stills. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. Don’t know where you got the idea that I had.” 

“I suppose I just assumed that, given your…” he gestures weakly.

“My…?”

“Well, I don’t know. Your corporation is very…”

“Kissable?” 

Aziraphale sighs. “You’re really very drunk, you know.”

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.” Crowley attempts to straighten up, but fails, and opts for swinging a leg over the arm of the throne instead. Aziraphale shifts and blurs in front of him, and he has to blink to clear his vision properly again. 

“Why didn’t you just say? I’d never have asked if I knew you found it unappealing.” 

“Who says it’s unappealing?” The simple fact of the matter is that it _ is _unappealing, when he imagines himself with any other person except Aziraphale. And Satan, he’s tried. Over the years he’s stared at countless people, waiting for that desire to spark in him. He’s sat across bars from rock stars and dined with kings and queens, he’s met demons more ancient and beautiful than half the galaxies in the universe, and not once has he ever wanted what he wants when he’s with this single, stupid, soft angel.

“Then...then you were waiting for the right person?” 

“You could say that.” 

Aziraphale looks down at his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“Angel,” he says, and sits up a bit more normally so he can actually make eye contact. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker back and forth, too uncertain to look at him for too long. “Tell me you’re not seriously this dense. Tell me you really, actually don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think! I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” He sounds so lost, so guilty for robbing Crowley of this, and his voice is so fragile. Crowley wants to tell him the truth. It would be easy to just open his mouth and confess it all, to make that broken look disappear. But that means opening himself up to the possibility that after all this, Aziraphale just isn’t ready for it. That after all this, Aziraphale doesn’t feel the same. 

“Why did you ask me to kiss you?” He asks. “You said yourself, there are billions of humans out there. Why me?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes shine with pain and guilt. “Why do you think, Crowley? It was because I wanted to. I have for...well, for quite a while, now. I thought that maybe you wouldn’t mind it, just the once, to get the idea out of my head. It was stupid and selfish of me, I’m sorry.”

Crowley breathes in. “And did it? Did it get the idea out of your head?”

“You didn’t have to say yes, you know. If you just did it to spare my feelings, you needn’t have bothered.” That’s another one of those answers that isn’t an answer, but it’s all the confirmation Crowley is going to get without showing his hand, too. Aziraphale turns away, hides his face behind a stiff, trembling shoulder. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ll be going, now. Goodnight, Crowley.” 

“Wh- wait!” Crowley drags himself up. His head spins and he curses. He has to force the alcohol out of his system fast, because Aziraphale is walking away. He’s already at the door. “You’re the right person!”

Aziraphale stops with his hand on the door and turns back, looking confused. “Sorry?”

“You asked if I was waiting for the right person. I was.” He tries to steady his breathing, to focus on the cool concrete beneath his feet and force back the beating of his heart. “I was waiting for you.” 

There. He’s done it. After Satan knows how many years of wishful thinking and pretending not to pine and not even pretending not to be pining anymore, he’s finally said the blessed thing. He’s just a demon, standing in front of an angel who won’t understand that joke, asking him to love him. Aziraphale seems to breathe in the full weight of the confession in a single breath, and his mouth falls open.

“All this time?” He says, barely more than a whisper.

“It’s you, angel.” He wants to reach for him, to do anything but stand paralysed in front of him, waiting, waiting, always waiting. “It’s always been you.”

Aziraphale has a look in his eyes so full of _ something _ that it hurts in a whole new, different way than usual. “Oh, _ Crowley _.” And then he’s smiling, a sun coming out from behind the clouds. He moves first, walking towards Crowley. 

“You know, if you asked me again, I wouldn’t say no,” Crowley says. His throat has gone dry, and his voice comes out more hoarse and desperate than he expects. Aziraphale looks as dazed and stunned as he feels. Gently, cautiously, he raises his hand on his shoulder. The touch is feather-light, easily thrown off. 

“_ Crowley _,” Aziraphale says, and he’ll never get tired of hearing his name said like that. Like it means something. Like it matters. “Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?”

He has to laugh. He feels a bit giddy, to be honest. “No, angel. I wouldn’t mind that at all.” 

Warm hands find the sides of his face and hold him gently where he is as Aziraphale comes in closer. Crowley closes his eyes this time, and lets the feeling wash over him, the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm body pressed so closely against him, of his lips, of his soft hands on his face. When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is looking at him with unreserved adoration, and the harsh overhead lights shine through his white hair like a halo. 

“You really didn’t know?” 

Aziraphale shrugs, a bad habit that Crowley was thrilled to introduce him to when it was invented. “I hoped, my dear. But any more than that was too dangerous. And by the time we were free...I thought I’d waited too long. Gone too slowly.”

Crowley shrugs back. “Nah.” It’s not much of an answer, and Aziraphale gives him a disapproving look, which morphs into something a bit mischievous. 

“You know, I’ve never held anyone’s hand before, either.” 

“Liar,” Crowley says, and twines his fingers with Aziraphale’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is: the two of them, back and forth, since Eden. It feels like coming home. “What else haven’t you done?” He aims for a suggestive tone, which Aziraphale politely ignores. 

“I’ve never hugged anyone,” Aziraphale says, with a smile that says he’s definitely fucking with Crowley now. 

“Liar,” Crowley says, and lets Aziraphale wrap his arms tightly around his shoulders and relax against him. They stay like that for a while, breathing in sync, just existing. He notices a thousand small things, like how his breath ruffles the soft hair on top of Aziraphale’s head, and how Aziraphale's fingers rub gentle circles into his back, and how he smells like dust and old paper. “What else?” He asks. Aziraphale sighs, and he feels it on the back of his neck.

“I’ve never said ‘I love you’.” It’s like being thrown out of a plane at fifty thousand feet. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for that. The words ring in Crowley’s ears long after Aziraphale says them. He thinks of all the times he’s caught Aziraphale’s gaze lingering on him when he thought Crowley couldn’t see, and he remembers _ I can’t have you risking your life _ and _ you go too fast for me _ and _ just a little bit, a good person _and_ drive safely_. He’s saying it again right now, with the pressure of his arms around him, with his head resting on his shoulder, with the way he breathes in time with him.

“Liar,” he says, and when he kisses him, it feels like coming home. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be short and fluffy, but it got away from me with the angst at the end. written as a break from my long au fic, which i'm still working on a new chapter for. the airbase scene is killing me to structure since it's so long, so it'll be a few days - Alex


End file.
